Sick!

July 20:   Rogers City

Mile 422 and holding

I feel OK when I wake, even though I am filled with dread about our move to the middle of the Mitt. I scared myself looking at a topographic app of Michigan.  Looking at the digital maps in living color of the road ahead, I remember yesterday’s hard ride of yesterday and fear worse is coming. 

I cannot sleep until I force myself to return to the app and do a comparison of the hills ahead with other hills we have ridden.  I see that the monster hills just outside the Mountain Grill are much bigger and much steeper than those we will face today.  I say to myself, “You have faced worse and made it.  Now go to sleep.”  It takes some hours, but eventually I do. 

Is Wes awake during any of this?  Of course not.  He sleeps like a noisy baby while my anxiety churns.

Even though I can feel my bowels starting to roil, we go to breakfast (?) in the completely inadequate breakfast room. In the 8’ by 10’ room several families here for the big softball tournament are talking about the exploits of teens cutting loose away from home.

One teen boy: “I didn't get to sleep until 2:30.”

A teenage girl at another table: “I was waiting for them to get back from biking when I went to bed at 11:30. They still weren't back by 1!”

I would have loved to listen more, inveterate snoop that I am, but there is no place to sit.  We return to our room to crowd around the low coffee table and eat stale bagels with little plastic containers of cream cheese.

Boom!  Without warning, my body is in revolt.

I am dizzy.  My body is evacuating as much as possible as fast as possible.  It feels like food poisoning…with an emphasis on the poisoning part.  As I make my way to the bathroom, I focus on the pattern of the carpet and it goes all wobbly and weavey.

I guess my fears about going into the middle of the state will not be met today.  I change reservations for today and tomorrow and send Wes off.

I lay in the bed, and sleep without moving—or rest.  When Wes returns two hours later from documenting the murals of the town, I
haven't budged. I still have vertigo and my stomach and bowels are still doing jumping jacks.

But our room has a fantastic view of Lake Huron on this clear blue day.  The temperature is 70°.  After the storms of yesterday, people are out enjoying the Sunrise Side Trail, truly one of Michigan's most beautiful bike rides.  It stretches from Roger City to the 40-mile lighthouse

along the Huron shore. We rode it last time we were here.  It is part of what encouraged us to follow Huron’s shore for this leg of the trip.

We puzzle about what made me sick.  Perhaps it was the leftover sandwich we carried from Grand Lake.  We both ate it on that hard waterless ride from Grand Lake to here.

But Wes, as per usual, has a cast iron stomach. He almost never has digestive trouble despite (maybe because of) eating quite questionable food.  This is not my M.O at all.  My stomach and bowels flip at the slightest suggestion.

But oohh well.

We'll spend the day in this friendly and beautiful working town. 

Hard Miles to a Heavenly View

July 19:  Rogers City

Miles 405-422. 17 miles

We are still off the official Iron Belle Trail.  We return to US 23, but it is not so pleasant because the big wide shoulders of downstate are gone.  We are riding in traffic.

I ask Google for an alternate route, and it suggests going to Thompson Harbor State Park. When we get there, Wes says “No way! We are not going to go wandering on dirt roads that are either rocky or sandy.”  We'll take our chances on the highway.

We are getting into the outback of Michigan.  We are several miles inland from the Huron shore.  There are precious few houses and even fewer services.

Even so, the traffic is heavy.  The shoulder is narrow and hasn’t been cleaned in a long while.  We evade dead animals, tire bits, general trash, and broken glass while always keeping our ears open.  The last thing we want to do is swerve to avoid a shredded tire and end up right in the path of an on-coming 70 mile an hour car.

We move slowly through hard miles.  It is up and down hills, some we can ride, more we cannot.  Because we are on a highway, there is little shade for these forced marches up these steep hills.  I don’t let Heidi out even though it would make the push easier.  The shoulder is too narrow and the traffic too fast.

We are rapidly going through our water. The only food we have is leftovers from last night’s sandwich.  At the one convenience store we have seen since Grand Lake, I buy two juices, stand in the store’s shade and guzzle them down. 

The going gets extra tough when we must navigate through highway construction around Michigan 65.  At one point, I find a bit of shade near a pull off. I am surrounded by construction equipment.  The men working across the road just stare when I let Heidi out of the crate for a bit of a break.  We are still thirsty after we drink the last of our water. 

There is no sign of Wes.  I wait and wait until I see him pushing his bike up the hill and moving slowly.  When he finally makes his way to our little bit of shade, he leans over his bike and pants.  We finish his water, too.

We are pleased/relieved to see the southeast entrance to Rogers City, which takes us past Calcite, a limestone mining operation just south of the city.   More than three times the area of the city itself, this huge earthwork gives Rogers City its nickname “Limestone City.”

It is a rolling ride straight east alongside the 75 feet deep mine.  At the top of one rise, I see two teens, completely dressed in Goth black, standing on a 8-foot concrete bunker inside the Calcite fence.  I wonder: a) how did they get in there?  b) what are they staring at? and c) aren’t they hot in those clothes?

However, this is no time to contemplate.  The last hill before we turn north and head into town is a doozy.  After riding a small downhill and crossing a bridge over a peculiar orange stream, we must make sharp uphill with a grade of about 30 degrees.  I pump as fast as I can down the hill, trying to get some momentum to “shoot” me up the steep hill.  I make it about 60 percent of the way, then it’s off the bike again, to push bike, dog, and trailer up the grade.  To do this, I must brace the handlebars to stop the force of gravity from winning this particular struggle.

At the top of the hill, I look back to see Wes.  He is off and pushing even earlier.  When he gets to me, he is red in the face and panting hard.  We have not even gone 20 miles to day, and yet we are both beat.  It will be good to get to our lodging.

The way into Rogers City after the turn is a long downhill.  It feels great to have the wind cooling our hot bodies.   As we come into town from the south, we pass by a large complex of playing fields buzzing with activity.  We are not close enough to tell what's happening.  There are hundreds of cars and a big banner proclaiming PIGS Tournament.

Once downtown, we simultaneously and without a word or signal between us turn into the parking lot next to a coffee shop. I let Heidi out of her crate.  Her tongue is hanging.  We are greeted by customers sitting on wooden benches outside the door.  They welcome us to the town and as I pull Heidi’s water bowl from my pannier, a long-haired dark skinned woman slurping a big cold frothy drink says, “You can take your dog in.  The  owner is completely OK with animals.  She will even give her a treat.” 

In we go.  Before long, we have big frothy drinks; Heidi laps two bowls of water, and ensconces under a table.  She gnaws on a dog treat given by the owner, a blonde 40-something, who despite being busy as can be, greets us warmly.

A constant stream of families with young women come into the coffee shop.  They are some of the many participants in the PIGS tournament.  We learn the unfortunate acronym stands for Presque Isle Girls Softball.  (Presque Isle is the county name here.)

Now in its 16^th year, the tournament has grown and grown.  Twenty-eight teams from throughout northern Michigan are playing.   The previous record was twenty-one teams.

That's a lot of teenage girls, as each team has at least nine girls. If each girl is traveling with at least one family member… well, you can imagine why every room in town has been booked.

…And why we are grateful to have a room at the Driftwood Motel.  We love our room on the 2nd floor with its spectacular view of Lake Huron from its rickety balcony.  We don't love the uneven steps that have different heights of risers and different sizes of treads.  We must watch each step so as not to tumble down the whole steep mess.

Could the place be in better condition? Yes. Some of the wood is rotten and unpainted. But we are happy to relish the view.

Around 5:00 PM, just as a small rainstorm turns into a big rainstorm then an all-out blustery squall, we go to the restaurant next door. It is packed with sopping wet ball players and their families.  

The big deck overlooking the lake would normally seat forty or fifty people, but it is still pouring, so groups of seven or eight cram around tables meant for four.  The middle-aged male host has a slightly crazed look, as he tells us he can’t seat us for at least an hour.   

Can we sit at the bar?

He actually sighs with relief as he leads us through the crowded bar to the last two seats on the bar end.  We watch the bartender and waitstaff scurry.  They turn out one order after another, trying to serve the big groups whose games have been rained out.

We order simple drinks and a delicious smoked trout spread. We are amazed when the bartender, a slightly heavy-set blond who pushes her hair out of her eyes as she churns out margaritas, martinis, beers, and pop, and who has not stopped for one second since we sat down, takes the time to greet and welcome the parents of the cook.  They come up to the bar and look to be well into their late seventies.  They shyly introduce themselves and say, “We’re John’s parents.”  She doesn’t stop moving for one moment, while telling them what a good cook and kind person he is.  Talk about grace under pressure.